If I've Got You
by crazy-wee-cat
Summary: "But he suddenly can't look away, because despite the evidence in his head, despite what he knows, despite the fact that he saw it happen, he can't work out how that blood got there, because his best friend can't be dead..." John Watson post-Reichenbach. My take on how John coped after the fall. One-shot, please R&R!


_Spoilers for Reichenbach Fall if you haven't watched it yet!_

_I definitely do not own the genius that is BBC's Sherlock, and obviously by extension, not the original novels etc._

If I've Got You

John finds it difficult to remember what happened after the fall.

A few things are starkly clear in his mind. One – his best friend falling, arms and legs thrashing in the air as if trying to stop himself, trying to grab onto some invisible rope or handhold in the sky, something, _anything_ that will stop him from meeting the ground. Two – the image of the streaks of blood across his face, the red contrasting with the deathly white which is paler than he imagined his already pale best friend could ever go. And three – his fingers on the wrist, still warm, desperately searching for a pulse, before his own fingers hopelessly go limp and let go of the hand of his best friend, letting it fall lifelessly to the ground.

Some time later, he doesn't know how long, he's sitting against the wall of what he assumes must be St. Bart's hospital, staring at the pool of blood which he knows is from his best friend's body. From _Sherlock's _body. It's still spreading, slowly, dribbling into cracks in the pavement, the dark red becoming a spider-web on the cold ground. And yet, John is still waiting for the catch, still waiting for the detective to reveal his plan, to roll his eyes and tell John that it was really all "child's play" and that if only John would _observe_ instead of merely _seeing_ then he would be able to deduct these things.

He can even hear Sherlock's infuriatingly smug voice in his head, "_All the clues were right there, right in front of you, John, you just needed to open your eyes and to _listen."

Except, somewhere deep in his mind John knows that _nobody, _not even the world's only consulting detective, could survive that fall. And he had felt for his pulse, had seen the blood, the pale body. He was there, he had seen it.

As he comes back to awareness he realises that his head is throbbing, that he is shaking violently, and that it has started to rain, the water mingling with the blood on the street, diluting the colour. He can hear the shrill, piercing scream of police sirens echoing around his head and he suddenly wonders if he should hide. Is he still a fugitive? Does it even matter anymore?

The sirens have stopped, and somebody kneels down beside him. If he was Sherlock, then he'd have been able to tell exactly who from the sound of their breathing, from their smell, heck, even from their shadow, but it is only when he speaks that he identifies the individual as Greg Lestrade.

"John?" his voice is soft, quiet. Careful. Almost as if he's talking to an invalid or a wild animal. He doesn't reply, still staring at the blood on the pavement. "John, look at me."

But he suddenly can't look away, because despite the evidence in his head, despite what he knows, despite the fact that he _saw it happen,_ he can't work out how that blood got there, because his best friend can't be dead, he _refuses _to believe that Sherlock is no more.

"John, please." The slightly desperate tone in Lestrade's voice forces him to look up, and he realises that at some point the inspector has moved in front of him and is crouched, leaning forward earnestly towards him. "Say something, John, come on." He pauses, waiting for something, for John to speak, but what is he supposed to say? Lestrade sighs, turns away and shouts something. Seconds later, a paramedic runs over with an orange blanket and awkwardly wraps it around John, who is making no move to co-operate.

"John, what happened?"

Something in his mind registers just how wrong this situation is – with Lestrade asking _him _what happened, as if he were a victim at a crime scene. That's not his role, that's _never_ his role. John seems to register the blanket round his shoulders suddenly, the vibrant orange catching his eye. His mouth opens slightly and he looks like he wants to laugh. That is before he realises his situation and his mouth closes firmly, becoming a thin line as he tries to hold in the emotion.

"John?"

"He...he fell." Was all he could manage, his voice cracking on the last word. He held up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose tightly, willing the tears away. "The blood, _oh my..."_

He's shaking violently now, his breathing rapid, and he swears quietly. Lestrade sighs, looking behind him and signalling to Donovan. He knows somewhere in the back of his mind that he's on the verge of a panic attack, something he hasn't experienced in a long time, but it's in the same part of his mind that is aware that his best friend's dead body is lying in the hospital behind him and if he believes this then he has to believe another, horrible, horrible truth. His breathing is fast and he can't pull enough air into his lungs and he feels so dizzy and Lestrade's worried face is blurring in front of his watery eyes and he is _terrified_.

"Come on, John, just breath with me, come on. In...out..." Lestrade's voice is calming, but all he can see in his mind is the blood and him falling, falling, falling and the world is spinning, and he hears Greg swear, and there are black dots in his vision and...

The next thing John knows, he's lying on the same pavement where he last saw his best friend, a paramedic talking to him slowly and cautiously. They manage to get him on his feet and into the front seat of Greg's car, whispered reassurances of "It's all going to be okay," which he knows is not true, because how can it all possibly be okay? He wants to tell them this, but what's the point? They don't understand, none of them do.

As days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months, John gets better at hiding his feelings. And, gradually, the pain gets less. It still hurts, and he still has moments where he doesn't want to get out of bed in the morning, but he's able to laugh again. He moves back into Baker Street, in the knowledge that Mrs Hudson is lonely and that, if _he's _lonely, there's a skull he can talk to. But sitting in the living room, facingSherlock's arm chair, he half expects him to jump out from the kitchen, long black coat trailing behind him as he runs to some bizarre new case, his fantastic brain solving it within minutes, John confusedly trailing behind him. And John feels slightly like he's hiding, pretending that he's _not_ gone, that living here, among all the reminders of him is like him surrounding himself in the materialistic side of Sherlock, the books and the clothes and the furniture.

Mycroft comes to visit him a few months after the fall. The tall man looks distinctly uncomfortable in the small flat, sitting in John's seat leaning slightly on his umbrella, his suit likely to be more expensive than most things in the room combined.

"John..." He paused, "How are you?" John can immediately tell that this is not the type of question that Mycroft is used to asking. He's a sensible man, and very clever, but he hasn't learned sentiment yet, he's like Sherlock used to be, unable to handle his emotions, even less adept at handling other people's.

"I'm fine," John said, with a small smile that doesn't really reach his eyes and a shrug.

Mycroft is momentarily silenced. He shifts in his seat and opens his mouth slightly, his breath catching as he tries to think of an appropriate response.

"Of course I miss him, Mycroft. But I'm fine." He made sure to look at his best friend's brothers eyes. "Honestly."

Again, the older man seems lost for words. "If you need anything, John...you know that I..." he's struggling, unable to offer help like this, he's so uncomfortable with emotions, with the idea of caring.

"Thank you." John says, trying to make it easier for the man in front of him. At least he's trying. Mycroft smiles, gets to his feet, and promises to let himself out, taking out his phone as he leaves. And John is alone again. But he doesn't even really mind...Alone is what he has now.

_Alone protects me. _

_A/N: Thought I'd try my hand at a Sherlock fic, as I've recently fallen in love with the show! I wanted to try what I thought was a realistic idea of John after the fall, with him grieving, but also starting to get over it. I believe the pain would always be there, but I think he'd learn to be happy again eventually, though obviously with some after effects. Anyway, please throw a review my way to tell me what you think, and I hope you enjoyed it! =) _


End file.
